Car Wash
by afullmargin
Summary: M/M. Hannibal gets hot and bothered watching Face wash the General's Mercedes.


**Rating**: Teen

**Notes**: I don't even know. I'm a big fan of UST and baby!Face being a brat. Unbeta'd, all mistakes are mine. Written for the prompt meme.

**Prompt**: maybe Face washing a vehicle and Hannibal watching him

**Disclaimer**: This is a work of fictional parody in no way intended to infringe upon the rights of any individual or corporate entity. Any and all characters or celebrity personae belong to their rightful owners. Absolutely no money has or will be gained from this work. Please do not publicly link, repost or redistribute without letting me know first.

**Written**: 3/2013

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Men didn't ask to be in Colonel Smith's squad – it seemed like it was reserved for the guys just this side of a dishonorable discharge and he wouldn't have it any other way. Most of them didn't last six months, but one who had managed to worm his way up to Sergeant's stripes – clearly deserved, but unlikely earned through typical means – showed promise.

Unfortunately, he also showed impetuousness and serious lack of discipline or regard for authority.

Of course, Colonel Smith had his ways of keeping his men in line and this one would be no different. There was a fine line between bending the rules and outright breaking them, hotwiring the General's Mercedes was well over that line. It wasn't shocking to find it parked in the back of the local drive-in with the windows fogged up.

Hannibal tapped on the window several times until it rolled down just enough to see Face's sheepish eyes. "Colonel…" he laughed, lowering it a little more; "I'm kind of a little busy right now… if this could wait…"

"Oh, I won't keep you, Sergeant." He replied calmly; "I just wanted to inform you that your assignment for tomorrow has been modified. You're to report for duty at 05:00 hours… with the General's vehicle."

A slow smile spread across Face's lips and he replied; "Five o'clock? Come on… I think… seven would be completely reasonable." Hannibal frowned and the younger man looked back at his obviously annoyed date; "I've got a box of hand-rolled Cubans in my footlocker that have been looking for a home…"

Hannibal scoffed and shook his head, any other officer and he'd have been hauled out of the car into the waiting arms of some very happy MPs, but he understood the guy – to a point. "05:00, Peck. That's an order. "The corners of his lips turned up into a half-smile and he added; "You'll want to wear shorts."

An hour late, Hannibal watched as the car pulled up right where he'd set out the hose and bucket full of sponges and towels. "You're late, Sergeant," he called from his lawn chair, lighting another fine cigar as he sipped his morning coffee.

"Yeah, uh… about that…" Face laughed, shaking his head as he saw the gear set out and put it together without much thought. "Sandy wanted breakfast and, uh… in bed, man…"

"Disobeying a direct order?" Hannibal raised a calm eyebrow, "I guess I don't feel so guilty for seizing the contraband in your possession." He watched as the younger man stopped in his tracks, shoving his hands into the pockets of his beaten up shorts with an aggravated grimace – taking another long sip of his coffee.

"Contraband?" He forced an innocent smile, "I don't know what you're talking about… those were, uh… gifts." He shrugged and headed toward the hose knowing full and well he wasn't getting out of it. "Just like those cigars."

Hannibal chuckled at the impetuous bastard, and shook his head; "They go well with the coffee and scotch."

His lips curled, the grimace deepening as he turned on the water. "You, uh… you snagged all that, huh?"

"Well, it's a shame to let good contraband to go waste. And I'm sure the favor you'll be doing for the motor pool later on this afternoon will make sufficient penance for your tardiness."

Face was clearly about to say something, probably something incredibly stupid and likely worthy of further action, but he bit it back and let out another hard laugh before turning on the water. "Wash and wax, Colonel?"

"Full detailing, I'll be sure to supervise – wouldn't want you cutting corners now." Hannibal relaxed, kicking his boots up on the chair opposite him. It was a nice, warm morning and he wasn't up any earlier than he normally would be… it didn't help that he didn't really mind the view.

Despite his recklessness, his cons, and the apparently never-ending quest to bed beautiful women, Templeton Peck was a genius. An artist at his craft, even. It was a distraction, nearly as much as the way he pouted when he got down to rinsing the Mercedes.

Hannibal let out a thick puff of fragrant smoke, peering out at the man with a neutral – if not slightly amused – smirk. Oh, he's good all right. Maybe not so good at washing a car, but definitely of making a show of it.

Face, for his part, seemed all too aware of the eyes on him – and with Peck there was no telling if the ploy was even conscious, he seemed to almost pride himself in getting attention from anyone who'd give it. "So, uh… the motor pool? I thought we were on maneuvers this afternoon."

The corner of Hannibal's mouth turned up in an involuntary smile as the sergeant crouched down to saturate a sponge with soapy water, massaging it out and then dipping it again. He replied; "I'm taking Peterson. He could use the time in the field."

He squeezes the sponge again and clenches his fingers around the edge of the bucket. "Peterson! That guy can't hit the broadside of a barn!"

"Too bad my best sharpshooter has a case of sticky fingers." He tucked the cigar into the corner of his mouth, puffing idly as he began to scrub the passenger door. "Might want to start at the top – then down."

For a moment, it almost looked like he was going to listen to the advice. He reached up toward the top, working the sponge across the top of the car before turning back to say; "Come on, man… are we really gonna do this? I mean… washing a car?"

"Washing all the cars."

"Look… she was really… really hot…" He protested, clutching the dripping sponge to his white shirt; "You would have done it too."

Hannibal shook his head, letting his smile show only the amusement as he pulled away the sponge and then stripped off his wet t-shirt. There may have been an ulterior motive to this particular punishment, though he'd never openly admit to it.

With a sigh, Peck gave in and went back to the deed – each stroke of his arm widening to a broad circle and shift of his hips. Solid muscle stretched almost cat-like as he pushed close against the door to reach the center of the hardtop, eliciting a silent moan from behind the cigar.

Hannibal's fingers idly stroked the curve of his mug, tongue darting out over his lips each time he removed the cigar. Distraction – clearly one of the sergeant's well-honed talents that was just as useful off the battlefield. His shorts rode up higher on his thighs, tanned skin giving way to a more creamy shade just under the khaki and he felt his pulse rise significantly. Shifting in his chair, he realized his mug had gone dry but he didn't dare get up.

Not yet. It wouldn't be wise; the last thing he needed was for his subordinate to know the obvious effects of his little display. Particularly not when he's spread so deliberately over the hood of the car rubbing circles that made it almost pornographic.

Instead, he waits until soap runs in rivulets from the spray as he rinses it off – turning the pressure washer against himself like he's filming it for Cinemax.

"Peck!" He calls out, tapping an unlit cigar against his knee in sheer frustration.

Face shakes his head, sending drops flying like a shaggy dog from his far-from-regulation hair with that stupid grin that says he knows exactly what he's doing. "This soap's hell on the skin."

"Keep your shorts on." He mutters under his breath, chomping into the wet tip he'd been venting his frustrations into before calling back; "Coffee break."

He rolled his eyes, but sprinted to turn off the water anyway – clearly content with his display. "I take mine with a sugar… two if you're sweet on me."

"And I'll take mine straight."

Face paused a moment, coming up to the Colonel's perch before offering an easy shrug. "Sure thing, boss."

"I believe the word you're looking for is 'Sir'." Hannibal chuckled dryly, flicking open his zippo to fire up the tip of his cigar with a heady sigh of smoke.

His grin only spread and he plucked the mug from Hannibal's hand with a meaningful glance. "Yes, Sir."

Focusing himself on the draw of the smoke, the exhale of his own breath and beating of his heart, Hannibal sighed at the remark after he ducked back inside. "Mmm, you're good…" he whispered, the temptation was a commendable foe but not one he couldn't get past. There were a million reasons he couldn't give in to it, not least of which being that he refused to give Peck the satisfaction.

"You, uh… ever get some action in a brand new Mercedes?"

"Is that an offer, Sergeant?" Hannibal looked up with a cocked eyebrow as he took back his mug.

Inviting himself to a chair, Face offered an almost coy shrug; "Well, I mean… just throwing it out there."

"Well, your aim's off and you'd be wise to watch where you're throwing things."

His voice dropped down to a near whisper; "You so sure about that? Because I couldn't help but notice you're a little bit pink under the collar there and you seem like you could maybe use a ride." He chuckled into his mug; "We could talk about it on the way over to drop off the car."

Hannibal drew heavily on his cigar, feeling his pulse jump again – part of his brain taking some intrigue in the younger man's blatant transgression. It would be easy, too easy. "You can drop it off on the way over; they'll be expecting you soon."

His smile faded, only slightly enough that Hannibal considered maybe he was disappointed. "Right, Colonel. I should get on that."


End file.
